


The Secret Office

by MezzaMorta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, Brother/Brother Incest, Brotherly Love, Caning, Companionable Snark, Corporal Punishment with love, D/s overtones, Discipline, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Holmes tantrum, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Porn With Mild Plot, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Feels, Spanking, Top Mycroft, Weird Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Sherlock has overstepped the mark, and Mycroft is very much less than pleased. It's time Sherlock visited the Secret Office, where things can be sorted out.Vaguely inspired by the Magnussen incident.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenellis/gifts), [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Actually the first Holmescest fic I ever wrote, revived and polished up cos I was in the mood. A standalone, but possibly the same Sherlock and Mycroft who exist in my other story, Palace. If consensual cor-pun isn't up your alley, you may wish to skip it. No harm is done, and Sherlock is in control. :)
> 
> With additional Epilogue gifted to lovely readers who requested it.

The post-clean up meeting had - in the typical parlance of parliamentary understatement - not gone as well as it might have done.

Mycroft Holmes resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes as he watched Sherlock preen and prance for the stuffed shirts in the debriefing room. He was riding high on his own brilliance, and had nicked all the biscuits laid out round the conference table whilst Mycroft explained just how many government resources, i.e. taxpayers’ money, had gone into covering up his little brother’s latest chaotic foray into the world of diplomacy and counterespionage. A world he knew nothing about, but insisted upon embroiling himself in regardless.

Sherlock had become obsessed with smoking out a Russian online troll factory currently sowing discord amongst the general populace with damaging disinformation. They had already swayed election results, and launched propaganda campaigns to influence political and business decisions, allowing hundreds of unsuitable people with dodgy connections to run some of the country’s biggest organisations behind the scenes.

There was evidence to suggest the cabal had facilitated cyberattacks on the NHS, and the Home Office databases. Classified evidence, which Sherlock had only seen by infiltrating Mycroft’s niche MI7 unit – which hardly anyone in the upper echelons of high spy society even knew existed. Mycroft had never even had to deny it existed, because no-one had ever confronted him with the fact there was anything to deny. Sherlock never mentioned that he suspected it. But evidently, after years of trying, the younger Holmes had broken the extremely secure virtual fence and obtained free run of the world’s most top secret files.

He had traced one particular operative, Sergey Kokorin, directly to the Russian mafia, and thence to the Russian government. This had resulted in a confrontation in the middle of a State banquet hosted by the Prime Minister, during which Sherlock had denounced the Russian President, and had roughly a hundred FSB and SVR semi-automatics held to his head before being bundled off to a basement in the Mansion House. John, rattled by how out of his depth Sherlock really was this time, had been reluctantly informing on his flatmate for months. Mycroft’s team had been ready to swoop when trouble finally arrived. They found Sherlock strapped to a table, about to be pumped full of something toxic in a syringe. It had been a close call, and Mycroft was simply horrified. 

Anyone observing the current debriefing meeting would wonder what all the fuss was about, from the way the wild-haired rogue detective was bouncing all over the place with careless glee, throwing his brilliance in the faces of the gathered heads of national security.

Mycroft was mildly proud of himself for only nearly losing his rag once. He was unaccustomed to letting his frustration show except for when dealing with Sherlock. The incident of recent memory was a particular low point for loss of self-control. He had ranted at his brother in full view of the Secret Service and most of the MPs in the House as they bundled him away from the scene of near-tragedy.

He sighed inwardly. His temper was only ever lost around the overgrown teenage menace who held the unfortunate position of world's only consulting detective and second most intelligent man in the country. All this posturing, even after the silly boy had done a very silly thing which he, the _actual_ most intelligent man in the bloody country, had been forced to spend precious time and effort accounting for. _Who'd be an elder sibling?_

And now there was this. Tweeting. Hashtagging, for God's sake, in the middle of a classified meeting. Showing him up again, and roundly enjoying himself. Glorying in his misdeeds. Begging for it, frankly. It was high time. Mycroft Holmes knew a coded message when he saw one.

_Oh, don't you worry, Brother Mine. Comeuppance approaches._

Mycroft patiently presented his summary of events, making clear what favours had been called in to smooth things over with the Russians, who were delighting in extracting concessions from the British which they would not otherwise have expected. But the British saved face, which was the main thing. Fortunately, Mycroft still had enough capital to convince the Powers That Be not to throw his brother into a cell on a remote island somewhere. But it had been a close-run thing.

Mycroft hadn't expected gratitude. No, he hadn't expected it. But he would have liked a little all the same.

After the suits had left, coldly ignoring the reclining and recalcitrant detective - who had put his feet up and was happily munching custard creams three at a time - Mycroft calmly put his papers and memory sticks into his briefcase, smoothed down his already immaculately smooth suit jacket, and forcefully opened the door. 

"Out," he commanded, trying to keep his voice level.

Sherlock paused mid-biccie, smirked, shrugged and leapt up, propelled by nervous energy and post-showing-off adrenaline. He made for the door, briefly changed his mind and turned back to grab the last two biscuits from the table. He smiled sarcastically at his livid elder brother and stuffed them into his mouth as he skipped from the room, shedding crumbs onto the immaculate taxpayer-funded carpet and treading them in for good measure.

Mycroft's temper flared in his chest as he was forced to walk at an undignified brisk pace to catch up with the flapping coat tails of the cockily striding renegade. _Curse him._ Physical exercise was not a welcome addition to Mycroft Holmes's day at the best of times. He resented this unnecessary display of athleticism. Of course, it was a deliberate provocation. He breathed deeply, and let the energy from his uncomfortably increased heart rate channel into strategic thoughts of retribution. 

"Breaking a sweat, Myc?" sniped Sherlock, without even bothering to turn round as Mycroft hastened to keep pace and disguise the fact he was slightly fraying at the seams.

"My office. Now," replied Mycroft, through clenched teeth, as he finally caught up with a spurt of effort.

"I'll take that non-sequitur as a yes,” snorted Sherlock. “How you must hate getting all sticky in your very important work clothes. Best stick to the treadmill. Still, a few more calories burned, eh?"

Sherlock reached the end of a long corridor and turned smartly left.

Mycroft came to a dead stop as his brother veered off.

"Not _that_ office," he said, smiling with smarmy superiority.

Sherlock stopped suddenly, then turned slowly back to face him, cocking his head to the side, his expression suspicious and marginally insecure. Caught off guard, thought Mycroft, with the first glow of genuine satisfaction he'd felt in days. _Good_. 

"This way. Come along, Brother Mine," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

He turned abruptly to the right and was delighted to hear Sherlock's faltering steps behind him. Sherlock did so hate to follow. It completely ruined his free-wheeling adventurer vibe. Or, as Mycroft preferred to think of it, his pirate act. 

Mycroft could hear the unspoken thoughts firing in his little brother's not inconsiderable brain. He voiced them aloud in a sickly sing-song voice as his brother fumed not-so-silently.

"'But where, oh, where can we be going? What's awful Mycroft up to? I've never been down this corridor before. That's annoying. Out of the modern part of the building now - no glass or polished steel here. Original historic wing, early 19th century. Corridors of power, is it?’”

“Shut up, Mycroft!” hissed Sherlock, infuriated. But he continued to follow, curious in spite of himself.

This was a new and profoundly aggravating bit of business Mycroft had hit upon recently - performing Sherlock's thoughts out loud. All the more aggravating to Sherlock because they were mostly correct, as much as they were intended to be belittling. Mycroft continued his narration.

“’Not many people come here. Unworn ugly carpet. Hasn't been decorated in decades. Abandoned. Convenient. Oh, look! A door hidden in the wood panelling - not very subtle. Did he think I'd be impressed? And, oh, look, a big obvious oil painting. And, yes, it slides out to reveal another door. Yawn. Left turn, right turn. And, here, a shabby broom cupboard, which of course no cleaner knows about. Ah, and inside, another door - thick metal, highly secure. Oh, _really_ , how absurd of big brother to have a secret office disguised as a broom cupboard, with actual brooms in it. How very stupid. How _bo-o-o-ring_.'"

Mycroft ceased his mimicry as he placed his palm onto the reader next to the door, and turned to the side for the retinal scanner to do its job. He tapped twice on a seemingly blank touchscreen. The door opened. He turned to Sherlock, who was leaning on a broom in an attitude of undisguised disgust. 

"In," he ordered, with grim satisfaction, and stood to the side of the open door. Sherlock sighed with exaggerated condescension. He sloped past, pretending to stifle a yawn.

Once inside, the irritated detective planted his feet, folded his arms, and gazed around, quickly calculating everything in the unsurprisingly large room. A typical Mycroftian bolthole. Contemporary, tasteful, dull. Grey, silver, blue. High ceilings, LED lights, soundproofing. One large window that looked out onto the House, disguised as a solar panel. _Blah-blah, computer, screens, snore, snooze_. The telltale hum of a fridge unit somewhere. A poncy en suite bathroom.

It looked like one of those awful luxury flat conversions, taken from Victorian grandeur to modern irrelevance in one fell makeover. _Who puts a flock wallpaper feature wall in their secret office, for God's sake?_ It smelled new - the carpet laid only a few months ago.

 _Smells of Mycroft. Sandalwood, nutmeg, tea and superiority_. _That monstrous leather sofa converts into a bed._

A few ergonomic, hidden doors most likely contained suits, shirts, shoes.

_He lives here sometimes when he works late. Why didn’t I know that already?_

Sherlock ceased his calculations and span round to Mycroft again, insults dancing on his tongue. 

"Turn your back," ordered the British Government, sternly, now fully in command of himself, safe within his private lair.

"Why?" sneered his brother, wishing that hadn't sounded so petulant.

"Security. And because I say so."

"Security," scoffed Sherlock. "It's pointless. You know I can deduce anything you're up to and I can get out of any room you put me in. Eyes in the back of my head."

"Yes, dear boy, of course," said Mycroft, with supreme sarcasm. Then, sternly and sharply, "Turn!"

Sherlock turned, pissed off beyond belief at the instinctive pull of obedience that tugged his body round the other way. The pull, that thing that  _only_ happened with Mycroft.

_Stupid Mycroft. Bloody, buggering Mycroft._

"'How I loathe my horrid big brother, always so bossy, never any fun at all'...," said Mycroft, mockingly. Sherlock huffed and feigned indifference, badly.

A small sound. Almost indiscernible. A little buzz of electricity.

"'He locks the door,'" said Mycroft, slyly, once again accurately stating Sherlock's thought process. "'Why does he lock the door?' Mm?"

Realisation dawned. Suspicions confirmed.

"No," said Sherlock, quietly but firmly. He knew all too well where this was leading now. He realised he'd known since the minute they turned right instead of left.

"Oh, but yes," said his brother, with sardonic cheerfulness. "Oh, yes, Brother Mine." 

"Nope. Definitely not. Bugger off." Sherlock shook his head in denial.

Mycroft resumed his imaginary quotation. "’What is he planning? What will he do next? How can I stop him?’"

"I _can_ bloody stop you!"

Mycroft ignored him and said it. In that voice. In that low, dark voice: "On. Your. Knees."

"No, Mycroft!" it came out almost as a whine. Almost. 

"Immediately." Mycroft’s tone brooked no dissent.

Much to his annoyance, Sherlock found his knees descending to the tediously grey carpeted floor. Funny thing, inevitability. So disruptive to logic. He found he'd taken his coat off voluntarily, without being asked. _Sod it all to hell._  

Mycroft, pretending not to notice the action taking place in front of him, continued his ironic narration of Sherlock’s internal monologue. “'He locks the door, yes, but with what? No click. Not an ordinary lock, then. But so what? For I - clever-clever me - can pick any lock and decode any system. He locks the door with something silent. A pass card. A tag. A microchip in his hand perhaps?'"

"Do shut up, Mycroft, you sound ridiculous! You sound like bloody Moriarty, it's not convincing, you know!"

Sherlock suspected that his attempts at smart-arsing weren't entirely convincing either, snapped as they were by a man kneeling on the floor of his brother's slick, secret government office.

"No, perhaps not. I haven't quite the flair for the dramatic that you seem to find necessary," drawled Mycroft, eminently calm.

"Not dramatic. Stylish," sulked Sherlock, more irritated at himself now for getting drawn in.

"Oh, is that what you're going for? Well, well. It seems rationalism loses to sentiment once again. You really are making a habit of it, little brother."

Sherlock stayed silent, letting his sulk fill the room.

"Dearest, you wound me," said Mycroft, dry as toast. "'Now," he continued in his Sherlock voice, "I can overpower stupid, slow, chubby old Mycroft any day of the week. I can get up and I can shove him, twist his arm, wrest the pass key from him, or break his hand if I want to. I'm taller, stronger, quicker, fitter, so there.'"

"True," said Sherlock, smugly.

In his own voice, Mycroft intoned, "But that would be dull, would it not? How predictable. It would disappoint me. And you don't wish to disappoint me, do you, baby boy?"

"Don't call me that!"

Mycroft ignored him, enjoying himself now.

"You won't use vulgar brute strength, because you don't want to. You never want to, not really.”

His voice hardened, growing louder.

“And please bear in mind that I have shown you the courtesy of not dragging you out of that meeting by your ear in front of the entire civil service and kicking you down the corridor like you deserve."

Sherlock snorted derisively, but felt his ears grow hot and tingly in spite of himself.

"In any case," Mycroft continued, noting with pleasure the faint pinkening of his brother's ear-tips, "it would serve you nothing."

Mycroft finally moved round to face Sherlock, looking down upon him from on high, like some disgruntled falcon at a particularly troublesome mouse. Sherlock refused to be mouselike, and refused to make eye contact, choosing instead to let his gaze wander the room with exaggerated ennui.

"You'll like this, Brother Mine: it's a Time Lock," continued the elder Holmes.

In spite of his resolve to give Mycroft nothing he could use, Sherlock’s curiosity was indeed piqued, as his brother naturally knew it would be. _Confound him._ He quirked an eyebrow up at Mycroft, as if to say, ‘Go on, then, astound me.’

"A Time Lock, Sherlock," said Mycroft, emphasising the homophone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. But focused them when Mycroft presented a little blue metal counter, no bigger than a coat button.

"This little key locks the user in for an hour, regardless of any change of mind he might have once he's locked himself in. It's a simple concept, but rather cunning. The security applications speak for themselves, I trust. It locks but it does not unlock. So, you see, even if you used distasteful violence - which you do seem rather distressingly keen on of late - and swiped the key, you would still be quite shut in here. With me. If you held the pass to the door again, thinking to release yourself, it would not open but simply add another hour to the lock-in, and if you did so again, another hour would be added to the timer, and so on and so forth. You would simply have to wait out the increased time until you learned to stop trying to unlock the door. The Time Lock is the scourge of the impatient. So, you see, neither of us leaves this room until a full hour has elapsed. There is no override. And I am going to require every single second of it to deal with you. I may even require two, if you try me." 

Mycroft sighed internally. Ah, the pleasurable afterglow of having truly impressed and annoyed - and excited and rattled - the great Sherlock Holmes. _Serve the little beast right._

"That's... Just...stupid, Mycroft! What a pointless mechanism. Pathetic! Why would anyone want to lock themselves in a room for an hour?! Especially this ghastly room," spluttered Sherlock, indignant, outraged, and suddenly mildly claustrophobic.

"You do so love to ask questions you already know the answer to, don't you, _frater meus_?"

Sherlock huffed extravagantly and threw himself off his knees to sit cross-legged on the floor, elbows braced on folded legs, propping his head up on one hand. "S'ridiculous."  

"I didn't say you could sit."

"Don't care. Stupid. Waste of time. I have things to do, you know!"

"Fine. I see we are having difficulty today. Let's find something to help."

"Mycroft!" Definitely a whine. 

"Up."

"No! Bastard..."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked. Then he breathed and remembered his resolve to count to ten in the face of what was fast turning into a full-blown tantrum. Sherlock smirked at his brother’s momentary cracked composure, and then remembered how angry he was and settled in for a good glower.

Mycroft felt his control return again, as the pendulum of power swung from his brother back to himself. In that same calm, menacing voice he said, "Enjoy it while you can, then. That's the last time you'll be sitting for quite a while."

He walked with no apparent haste to the large glass desk at the far end of the room, feeling the look that could kill burning between his shoulder blades. He sat with an infuriating air of authority on the comfortable padded swivel chair, and casually pulled open a few of its drawers. In his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock drop his head down to be really sure that Mycroft knew he _wasn't_ watching and _didn't_ care what he was rummaging with.

Mycroft hummed to himself, knowing how his brother loathed it, and pulled out a number of interesting items from the side cabinets, and one very interesting one from the long drawer underneath the table itself. He placed each one carefully and deliberately on the hard glass surface, letting its weight drop with a variety of differently textured sounds. Sherlock's ears pricked up and Mycroft saw his prominent Adam's apple bob as he swallowed in nervous anticipation. 

"Up, Sherlock."

"Make me."

Mycroft huffed a small, disbelieving laugh. "I shan't. I never shall. Your choice or nothing." He held his breath slightly, wondering which way this would go. There was a fleeting possibility... But no. No. The choice would be made in his favour, he knew it. They both knew.

A silence. A longer silence. Decisions were made and unmade. Thoughts whirled through the younger Holmes.

_Just stay put, he can't make me. Just sit here for an hour. Hateful Mycroft. Helpful Mycroft. Bloody handsome lovely Mycroft in his nice suit. Need help. Need this. No, don't want to. Embarrassing. Desperate. Want to, don't want to. Stupid, messy feelings._

The thoughts were clear and then clouded. _Confusion, so hateful!_ And the noise, the noise in his head, the punching of his heart, the coiled springs in his body, the rush of blood... And then the storm broke in a thunder of unspecific language.

"Arrrgh!" roared Britain’s premier solver of crime, like a furious toddler.

Mycroft's eyes briefly closed at the sound of Sherlock's cacophonous raging, and he watched impassively as the lanky man-child sitting on the carpet, yelled and screamed his heart out – incoherent with helpless, primal fury. He kicked his long legs, slammed his boot heels into the carpet again and again, then threw himself onto his face and pounded the floor in a rather fetching display of wild cathartic violence. _Et voila._ A full-on Holmes tantrum.

Sherlock pulverised the carpet as if it had personally offended him (which - Sherlock's ever-active brain fleetingly noted - it _had_ , the stupid, boring, grey fucker), and slammed himself against it as he tried to rid himself of all the uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. He could deal with either in some measure, but not both. 

Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a good tantrum. Would Sherlock have been eight? No, there was that time when he was seventeen. Oh, and twenty-three. And on his thirtieth birthday. Come to think of it, this was not exactly unprecedented. How he'd missed them. Mycroft smiled, indulgently, proprietorially. A little performance all for him. How charming.

The tantrum finally burned itself out. Mycroft subtly checked his watch. Ten minutes of lock-in down, fifty to go. Still plenty of time, with the option of renewal for bad behaviour. _We'll see._

Sherlock's voice finally gave out to hoarseness. He was red in the face, panting, sweating, quivering with the tension that pulled him taught like a violin string, and his silverish eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

Well, thought Mycroft, let's see if we can't shed them for the poor boy.

"Finished?" he said, pleasantly.

Sherlock sagged into the floor on his front. A muffled little shamefaced "Yes" came from the depths of the shagpile.

"Good. Knees, please."

 _Gentle now_. _Kind. Still annoying._

Defeated, head hung low, Sherlock raised himself shakily onto his knees again.

"Are you ready to begin, baby brother?"

"Yes," sniffed Sherlock, with more certainty than he'd felt for a long time. Relief was lurking in this room and he wanted it. An hour. An hour for all to be made well again. Well, 49 minutes _._

_Listen._

All he had to do was listen to the Voice outside of himself. The Voice that always knew.

"Good boy," praised Mycroft, moving to stand over his brother once again. 

Sherlock stayed silent. Mycroft thanked gods he knew weren’t there. 

"Bad boy, though," he said, deeply.

Sherlock only shivered.

"Very," continued the Voice of the British Government. "Very naughty this time, Lock."

_Lock. The name._

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, My."

_My. The name._

"Good. We are in agreement, then." 

"I had to do it, My."

"That's not quite what I was referring to. But let's start with that, if you like." 

"I had to."

"I know you thought you had to. I know why. This isn't a confessional. And it's not why I'm...let's say it, upset. Yes, I am upset. Against my personal preference not to be upset, I am very upset," said Mycroft, sternly, meaning every word this time, no element of pantomime about it.

"Yeah," nodded Sherlock, sadly. 

"Do you understand why?"

Sherlock snapped as guilt prodded at his core. "Because of stupid boundaries, and lying to you, and yes, I know! I bloody know!"

"Attitude, please." The two words contained deadly fate. Sherlock quite sensibly fell silent. 

Mycroft resumed. "Lying to me is certainly very stupid. You have overstepped yourself, Sherlock Holmes. You have hurt yourself. It is not…appropriate."

Sherlock shook his head. "Haven't."

"Have though. Tell me, have I ever allowed you to hurt yourself, when I could help it? Is that who I am?"

The sullen detective shook his head again. Mycroft eyed the heavens. A sudden image of Sherlock lying prone and struggling on a table, panic in his eyes... He relived his own intense anxiety as he called off the rescue squad, fearing they’d shoot and his brother would get caught in the crossfire. The note of panic in his own voice as he commanded them not to fire. The dizzying fear that he might be about to lose the love, the meaning, of his entire life.

"God almighty, what possessed you, Sherlock?! Have you any idea how close this was? The lengths I've had to go to get you out of this one?!"

"Yes, you made that quite clear at our little meeting. How you must have enjoyed yourself! At least I gave you something to do instead of all that boring paperwork!" shouted Sherlock, deflecting a burgeoning sense of something heavy in his chest.

"Shut your mouth, this instant. You have already said things you will have cause to regret later, I assure you. Stop digging yourself a grave. Be quiet and listen."

Sherlock looked down, cowed, and, to his own bemusement, slightly ashamed. 

"I repeat. You have hurt yourself in this deed and I will not countenance it. Not drugs, not lack of sleep, or food, or days spent in endless, unlimited Mind Palace wanderings, nor reckless, thoughtless behaviour which puts you in danger. Do you understand?! I will not have it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up defiantly once more, ready to issue the standard denial.

"No? You didn't hurt yourself. You're fine, are you? Weren’t scared?” asked Mycroft, with deep irony.

Sherlock stayed resolutely silent. Mycroft continued.

“Were you saving the nation, or were you just bored? Did you need to do that, or did you just _want to_? Had you foreseen all outcomes or did you only see yourself triumphant and heroic, bringing down the villains? Was it truly a rational, calculated decision or was it bloody showing off?!”

"Yes, damn it, Mycroft, it was a rational decision – they’re holding the whole bloody country to ransom!"

"Indeed they are! Since when have you cared much for that? There was no puzzle to solve here! No game for you to play. Did you think I wouldn't handle Kokorin, and his ilk?! These things must be handled delicately. They must be given time to play out. More time than you have patience for, I know. But this is not your area of expertise, brother. You stick to your cases – do not try to pre-empt mine! I will always call for you when you are needed, but you must let me do my job properly first. For God's sake, Sherlock, did you think it was beyond my capabilities?”

Anger welled up in the detective's chest and bubbled over. "No, just beyond your desire! You did nothing, Mycroft, nothing! You let Kokorin and his lot run the whole show! You let him get his hooks in for years!" 

Mycroft stepped back imperceptibly, as if to avoid the pain of the accusation; the aspersions cast on his decency, on his competence.

He exhaled steadily, and replied, softly, sadly.

"How could you know that, Brother Mine? You have such little faith in me, even after all this time? I'm not sure I quite deserve that. Plans were afoot. Ruined by your impetuosity and your need to prove something - your need to do something, to feel something...exciting. And now we’ve given away so much more than we needed to - all to prevent embarrassment. Or armed bloody conflict!"

"He needed to end, Mycroft," insisted Sherlock, desperately.

"So he did. And you had to be the one to do it, did you? Or was it perhaps not about that at all? Was it in fact because it galled you to see someone running rings around us? Around you. A better hacker, a better infiltrator, a better processor of stolen data. No wonder he was coming out on top. You are supposed to think before you act, are you not?!"

“I did think. I thought it was worth it!” protested Sherlock, desperately, trying to convince himself now.

“Worth it. Really? I had hoped, I do hope, that you might consider what it’s worth to me! Jesus Christ, Sherlock, do you think I could live with it? If they’d gunned you down out of hand, or pumped you full of poison?! Do you think they couldn’t cover that up too? If I hadn’t been there… I know I can’t be there all the time. I’m not your keeper. I’m your brother. I’m your…” His voice cracked. “Damn you, Sherlock, I’m your lover. Or is that what you were trying to tell me? Am I not worth keeping yourself just a little safer for?”

Mycroft softened his voice as he realised Sherlock's shoulders were hitching up and down in silent, repressed sobs. 

"Yes, My," he whispered.

"Yes?" breathed Mycroft, his voice dropped from fever pitch. 

“Of course you’re worth it. I just forget! I forget everything except the noise in my head. I forget there’s even such a thing as safe. When the game is on, when it feels… You know!” he wailed, despairingly.

“God, yes, I know! How I know. But this can’t continue! You must, you WILL call me when that noise begins. So I can put measures in place. Like the lists. I have no wish to stalk you or trap you. But I will not lose you to your own demons, and I will not be responsible for putting you in the ground! I would _grieve_ – do you know what I mean by that?! My soul would die with you, brother. What is it that you don’t understand?!”

"You’re shouting at me again," said Sherlock, quietly, like a child.

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, holding back the inconvenient tears prickling insistently at the corner of his eyes, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

"I am. I am. I don't like to, dearest one,” he said, quietly.

And that final sweetness undid Sherlock entirely. Tears flowed freely down his face and he breathed great sobs of air until his lungs burned. 

Mycroft tried to retain his own composure. He still had a job to do, after all.  He tutted with loving exasperation.

"Up. Here."

He pulled his gangly brother up and led him over to the large sofa. He sat at one end and manhandled Sherlock’s unresisting form down into an awkward embrace. Sherlock’s long spidery legs hung off one end. He twisted into Mycroft’s chest and sobbed his eyes out into his shirtfront, clinging to his back, seeking the absolution he had already been gifted, if he but knew it.

How rare were these moments – sights no-one in the world had ever seen, or would ever see. The Great Detective and the British Government. Soft and sweet.

After some minutes Sherlock’s frantic cries ebbed away. His breathing slowed, the hitching gulps calmed, and he snuffled snottily. Adorably, so Mycroft thought, though he still looked miserable and defeated. Boyish.

"Lock?" he said, softly, as he stroked comforting circles on his brother’s back and up into the unruly mop of hair. 

"Mmm?"

"What's your job?"

"To find the dragons."

"To _find_ the dragons. Yes. It's my job to slay them, Brother Mine. Not yours. You only need find them for me."

"Yes." 

There would be no apologies. Mycroft loathed apologies. Besides, they were unnecessary when he knew everything that took place in the brain and heart that were near-imprints of his own. So alike, so different. Comprehensible to him alone, and yet still unfathomable.

"I will clean up any mess you make, you know I will. The physical ones out there, and the ones in here.” He tapped his brother's head with a gentle finger. 

"Yes." A simply stated fact.

"I want you to rely on it, but for both our sakes, you must...act as though that isn't the case. I want you to fly freely, but with some care. Just tell me where you’re going, so I can catch you if you fall. Don’t work without me."

"My. Tha..."

"Hush, none of that. It's what I do. It's what I'm for, since the day you were born. Tell me why."

"Because my big brother loves me best of all."

"Best of all, _mon petit frère_."

Sherlock sighed in contentment, and turned his face up to Mycroft's, taking in the cool grey eyes, more metallic and harsh than his own, but full of an alien softness only he was privileged to witness. Mycroft gazed down at his brother's tear-streaked face, so _so_ unlike the almost reptilian shell he presented to the world at large. He supposed, in these moments, he himself was notably less the lizard-like creature he was so often thought to be - that he sometimes believed he was.

Not cold-blooded at all, either Holmes. Not with each other.

Mycroft knew no greater pleasure than this. His beautiful boy, pliant in his arms; trusting, vulnerable, fragile, unbroken, and still alive, looking up at him with wonder, as though he were the answer to something. To everything. Slowly he pressed his cool, thin lips against Sherlock's warm, bow-like mouth, as they sighed into each other in perfectly familiar, familial harmony.

Tongues met, licking up tears, seeking more, giving rise to so much sudden heat. The Iceman and the Virgin, indeed. How stupid people really were, thought Mycroft. How stupid everyone was, not to see what was as plain as Molly Hooper - the glorious taboo of the Holmes boys, entwined in erotic obsession. Same as it ever was. Since they were old enough to understand what those feelings were. Too early, probably. But they were not ordinary, in mind or body. They had always understood one another. All their words, all their conversations, public and private, revealed this essential truth. And no-one saw it but them.

Reluctantly, Mycroft pulled away first. Business before pleasure, he cursed inwardly.

“All right, back to your place. And you can lose the clothes now, I think.”

Sherlock whinged at that. He flung himself off the sofa, edgy, irritable, not yet cleansed, and itching with unfinished business.

He peeled off his dark jacket, glad to be rid of it, and undid a few top buttons on his shirt before pulling the whole thing over his head. He kicked his boots off, hooked a finger under each sock and removed them. Mycroft scowled at him as he discarded everything on the floor in a heap. Sherlock sighed impatiently and stooped to pick them up, folding them neatly over the sofa arm.

 _Bloody OCD, Mycroft, that’s what it is_. _Who cares about clothes in this situation, for God’s sake?_

“Not there. I’ll be needing that. There, on that footstool.” Mycroft tutted. Little Brother was a slob about clothes. He thanked the fates for bringing Captain John Watson and his military ironing abilities into their lives.

Sherlock gulped and shivered a little as he did as he was bid, trying not to think too much about the sofa arm and its intended use.

He attempted to kneel back down but was pulled up by his hair. He grimaced and stood again, the iron grip yanking his curls painfully. He was met with Mycroft’s displeased face. Sherlock didn’t like Mycroft’s displeased face when he was nearly naked.

“It strikes me as ironic, my little detective, that I spend an inordinate amount of time demanding that you put your trousers on in inappropriate situations. Must I now lose my temper to make you remove them in an entirely appropriate one?”

“All right, all right, fine!” snapped Sherlock, bristling at the nickname and impatient to have this over with. Why had he thought he’d get away with keeping them on, even? He was self-aware enough to know he was feeling slightly guilty, just a tiny bit, at having taunted his beloved brother with public nude protests in the recent past. Mostly, he still found it funny. But he was also delaying, dreading removing his trousers and fully giving himself over to his brother’s mercy. Or lack therefore.

It was useless to resist. And anyway, he didn’t want to, which was by far the worst part of this.

Drawers duly dropped, he looked to Mycroft for permission to kneel again, trying to look demure and sorry.

“I think we’ll have your pants off too, Lockie,” smirked his evil brother. “Fetching as they are.”

“Oh, Myc!” moaned Sherlock, lashing out in retaliation with his brother’s most hated nickname.

Mycroft frowned. “Definitely off. Now stop stalling me, and get on with it.”

Sherlock complied, slipping the tight black jockey shorts off. He tried to ignore the sudden feeling of self-consciousness as the air hit his bare bum. That wasn’t the only thing that would be hitting it, he thought with self-pity.

“There, isn’t that better?” said Mycroft, taking the trousers and pants over to the footstool and carefully folding them.

Sherlock saved himself the bother of replying. He wanted to cover himself from the front but didn’t dare. It was pointless anyway. He tried for the confident-casual look, but he never knew what to do with his hands. He felt like twelve types of twat.

Mycroft removed his own jacket and placed it neatly over the chair. He began slowly undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. Sherlock felt deeply conflicted about this essential part of the ritual. Dread and anticipation roiled in his stomach, but he couldn’t help the appreciative glance at his brother’s forearms. Although he knew this was not prelude to a fuck (yet), his cock thought otherwise and began to take an interest - the only part of Sherlock Holmes that was impervious to mind control. Well, that wasn’t quite accurate. It was only Mycroft that did this to him. Mycroft had some kind of override button in his brain that made his cock hard. Only Mycroft.

“Stop that, you’re not supposed to enjoy it,” smirked Mycroft, knowingly. “Though, as always, it is a delight to see you like this, little brother. All bare and eager for me...”

Sherlock blushed. Only Mycroft made him do that too.

Fixing him with what Sherlock imagined was meant by ‘a gimlet eye’, Mycroft seemed to be asking a silent question. Sherlock had obviously answered it to his satisfaction, as he nodded slightly, and picked up a hefty-looking riding crop from the desk. Sherlock swallowed thickly.

“This? Or…” He reached down again and brandished a long, thin, wicked cane. Sherlock blanched. He hated it.

“Yes, I think this…” Mycroft whipped the cane through the air, enjoying the involuntary flinch the high-pitched swish induced in his brother. “The crop is perhaps too reminiscent of certain events.”

“No, it really isn’t! I mean, that was…” protested Sherlock, struggling to say anything at all.

“Hush. I know what that was. Curiosity that didn’t kill the cat. I can live with it. Now, up with you. Bend over the sofa arm, please.”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, no, Mycroft! Can’t you… I mean, aren’t you going to…?”

He lost the ability to express himself, which Mycroft took as a sure sign that he was doing something right.

“I beg your pardon? I don’t catch your drift, Brother Mine. Something wrong?”

“I thought you’d… You know…” Sherlock sighed, realising he was going to be forced to ask for it. “Can’t I go over your knee instead?”

His face flushed with humiliation.

Mycroft’s face, on the other hand, flushed with delight.

“How sweet of you to suggest it. Yes, I think you may. Before, though. Not instead of. Not this time.”

“Oh!”

“I know. Come here at once.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up in the Secret Office, and all is made well.

Mycroft took a seat and patted his lap pleasantly. Sherlock flushed and kicked at the floor before dragging himself over, ducking his head as he allowed himself to be bent and arranged across his brother’s thighs. He gave a pathetic little whimper in the vain hope of inspiring sympathy.

Despite a lifetime of trying, it never worked.

Mycroft settled him with a hand on his lower back, stroking gently at the smooth, upturned buttocks. Now the ritual began.

“List your infractions,” he demanded, as Sherlock knew he would. He would always wait until his brother was in this most humbling of positions. It seemed to loosen his tongue.

“You list them!”

“Surely I must be mistaken in thinking are you giving me backchat whilst bare-bottomed over my lap?”

Embarrassment always made Sherlock tetchy.

“I don’t know. OW!”

Sherlock glared round with a look of almost comic betrayal at the stinging spank that landed.

Mycroft ignored him and resumed.

“The list. While I am still holding on to my patience.”

Sherlock turned away, screwing up his face as he tried to think clearly.

“Erm… when are we counting from?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When are we counting from? Where shall I start?”

Mycroft sighed.

“Much as I would love a list of every misbehaviour that has offended me since you were born, I think we can limit ourselves to the time since our last disciplinary encounter. I’d like to go home at some point, while I still have some colour in my hair.”

Sherlock had the grace to blush.

“Working undercover without telling you,” he said, reluctantly.

“Quite. And?” He patted Sherlock’s rear in dubious encouragement.

“And what?”

“Hacking and stealing state secrets!” cried Mycroft, unable to believe his brother was still being recalcitrant.

“Yes. You kept MI7 from me! _You_ were hiding things from _me_! I can always tell!” accused the younger Holmes, petulantly, swivelling his head round to glare menacingly, though his unfortunate position undercut the effect somewhat.

“Yes, you can, clever boy. I hid it for a reason, because it really isn’t your business, and I feared something like this happening! But… I ought to have considered more seriously your need for a covert mission, and perhaps I have underestimated your abilities. You improve continually. It is both impressive and distressing. You were all too eager to fall into that little trap, weren’t you? I really must be slipping, as you always say.”

Mycroft sounded rather downcast, and it made his brother’s heart ache just a little bit.

“You’re not slipping, My. I think I’m just getting worse.” he said, gloomily.

“I think I may have left you unattended to for too long,” replied Mycroft, with kindness.

 Sherlock breathed a little easier. Relief he hadn’t known he needed. Mycroft smiled fondly above his brother’s long bare back. He resumed.

“And? More, please. I’m waiting.” He patted the bare cheeks on his lap, prompting more self-reflection.

Sherlock winced, reminded that they hadn’t really started yet.

“Not keeping you in the loop. But it wasn’t because I underestimated your ability. I know you weren’t neglectful or uncaring about Kokorin. I just wanted to go it alone, and once I start I can’t stop. I didn’t want you breathing down my neck!”

“Protecting you.”

“Fussing me!” exclaimed Sherlock, throwing the old familiar grievance into the air.

“Even though I have told you plainly how it upsets me when you go off-message, how bloody worrying it is for me,” responded Mycroft, with his own well-rehearsed objection.

“You deliberately use sentiment to try and manipulate me into behaving, and it pisses me off!”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. “Hmm. Well, yes, I admit that. Still, they aren’t empty words, dear.”

“Yeah. I know. I just… I wanted a danger night,” confessed Sherlock, with a heavy, defeated sigh. Why was the truth always so annoying?

Mycroft breathed a sigh of his own, relieved that his brother was demonstrating self-knowledge so openly.

“I know. I’m glad you know too.”

“I do. I was being… A dick.”

Mycroft tutted. “Where would we be with Dr Watson’s _mots juste_? Moving along now. It will all be dealt with, Brother Mine.”

“OK. That’s it,” huffed Sherlock, resting his head in his folded arms.

“I think not.”

Sherlock craned round again to meet his brother’s narrow-eyed glare. He bit his lip, doubtfully. “Not?”

“Not,” said Mycroft, firmly.

Sherlock drew a blank.

Mycroft shook his head in despairing disbelief.

“That meeting, Lock, not half an hour ago. Honestly! Tweeting! Showing off, scoffing all the custard creams. Presenting yourself as the most ill-disciplined oik this side of the Thames!”

Sherlock snorted and suppressed a giggle. He knew all too well that bad manners were the primary tipping point of Mycroft’s aggravation.

“We are not amused, Brother Mine,” intoned big brother, in a tone not entirely unsuited to Lady Bracknell.

Sherlock laughed out loud. Mycroft suppressed the instinctive turning up of his mouth as his mercurial brother’s infectious laugh coaxed him out of his disciplinarian role. He thought briefly back to the careless, insolent smirks his brother had thrown at him, and hardened his heart.

“Be quiet, you awful menace.”

Sherlock stifled his giggles and tried to control his shaking shoulders. Mycroft responded with appropriate intolerance.

“Ow! Mycroft!” he whined, as the broad hand made quick contact with his bottom.

“Good,” said Mycroft, unrepentantly. If he started indulging him now, he’d never be able to help the boy.

“I seem to recall some rather saucy insults thrown my way here and there. ‘Bastard’ was one. I rather think the wisecracks about my appetite may have been unwarranted too. And now I think about it, very irksome. Yes, I do find myself rather irked.”

“Ooh…,” whined Sherlock, cringing in anticipation as his brother’s hand drew back, higher than before.

“Yes. Very ooh,” agreed Mycroft, as he let fly with his arm, walloping his hand down upon his brother’s wiggling backside as hard as he could manage, and repeatedly.

Sherlock tried to stay quiet but gave up in despair by the tenth time Mycroft’s palm fell. He wailed and huffed as he was soundly punished, feeling all of eight years old and knowing that somehow that was probably about right. This whole odd little bargain between brothers was entirely about that feeling – removing him from his adult responsibility, handing the reins to one who really did know him better than he knew himself, and trusting him to mete out a proportionate response when he overstepped the mark. They had negotiated the terms of their arrangement decades ago, and neither Holmes had wavered in their adherence to it. Besides which, they loved each other, and that could not be disputed or countermanded. It wasn’t a choice. It was simply fact, which made it altogether easier to accept.

Sherlock squealed and howled his little ‘ohs!’ and ‘mmfs!’ of displeasure, feeling the scorch covering his entire rear end. Mycroft always pinned him firmly to stop him thrashing around and rolling away, but left him enough room to kick his legs and beat his fists on the floor.

“So dramatic, Lock. I’m not murdering you,” tutted Mycroft, despairingly.

“Hurts!” complained Sherlock, in his customary monosyllabic sulking voice.

“Being injected with poison hurts more,” commented Mycroft, brooking no nonsense. “And don’t roll your eyes at me, young man.”

“You can’t even see my face!”

Mycroft ignored him and continued on to loud protests, until he was satisfied with the precise shade of red he’d imprinted upon the formerly peachy cheeks. Sherlock’s arse glowed with colour and heat, and he made pathetic little whimpering noises in the back of his throat as Mycroft ran his cool, non-spanking hand over the tender flesh, shaking his head affectionately. He tried, he really did try to make sure lessons were learned. But ultimately, he wanted this over with more than Lock did. He wouldn’t even be doing this if it were not what was required of him, though frankly nothing else seemed to work. 

Steeling himself to stand firm and not just pull the distressed lad into his arms, he encouraged him gently off his lap. Sherlock moaned as he rolled off. He lay on the floor, bum in the air, reaching back to rub at the sting.

_Provoking little…_

“Up you get. No theatrics, please. I know you enjoy play-acting, but believe it or not this is not actually my idea of a fine afternoon.”

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, biting his lip in a hybrid expression somewhere between guilt and self-pity.

He huffed and got to his feet extremely gingerly, hissing and gasping.

“Thank you. Bend over the sofa arm. The full dozen,” said Mycroft, quietly.

Sherlock shivered and hesitated. He’d known his sentence before it was pronounced, of course, but it was still a daunting prospect. Still, any less and he’d be pushing for more. Self-knowledge was more infuriating than an elder brother.

He went obediently to the sofa and lowered himself over the arm, hiding his head in his arms. He heard Mycroft move to retrieve the horrid cane, and winced in dreadful anticipation.

_Why do I need this, again? Couldn’t I just ask him to stop my allowance or something?_

He had a sudden vision of Mycroft bursting through the ranks of the armed police unit, shaking him furiously by the arms, shouting and distraught, eyes wild with terror. And he knew why he needed this. Knew why it mattered that he kept himself a little safer. Because to break himself was to break Mycroft - and he couldn’t.

When they were fully reconciled, when all was forgiven, he would test and push and challenge, and fuck things up, and run rings around his brother, and drive him insane. But break him? Never. It was their pact; the tacit understanding of their entwined lives. Neither would survive the other, would not want to, and so each held the burden of the other’s existence in their hands.

With these onerous, serious thoughts in his head, Sherlock calmed, and Mycroft saw the moment of complete acceptance; of his role and his duty, and of their enduring trust. The tension in his chest melted and he resolved to give what he knew he must to the owner of half of his soul.

He brandished the cane and tapped it with clinical precision onto his target. Sherlock bit his lip harder and braced himself for loving correction.

As usual, he heard the whistle and thwack of the first stripe before he felt the bite of it.

Mycroft judged the placement and intensity with long-practiced expertise. He had his routine. Medium force to begin with. Hardest in the middle. Much less hard at the end, unless there’d been any rotten behaviour or backchat during. He aimed at the fleshiest part of his brother’s anatomy, occasionally overlapping strokes to make the point.

The second and third strokes made Sherlock’s bounce on his toes. Tears began somewhere between the fourth and fifth. The sixth took his breath away, and made him break his admirable attempt at silence. He bellowed and howled at every hot stripe after that. His voice travelled the full range from the deepest, guttural shout, to the highest pitched squeal.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the ritual pleading and promising began, and was habitually ignored.

“My! Please, no! Stop! Ow! I won’t…ever again… Fuck!”

By the twelfth dreadful, burning stripe across his backside, Sherlock Holmes felt more remorseful than he could recall for quite some time, and was writhing and trying to kick the pain out through his feet.

“Ow-ow-ow!” he cringed pathetically, weeping into his arms as he tried to get on top of the pain.

Mycroft dropped the vicious implement instantly, and moved to whisper soothingly into his brother’s ear.

“Ssh, you’re all right. You’re all right,” he crooned, as much to reassure himself as anyone.

Sherlock continued to heave heartfelt sobs of remorse. Mycroft knelt and turned his brother’s head towards him, extracting him from the hiding place of his arms and the sofa cushion. Sherlock’s usually placid, pale face was flushed, sweating and streaked with tears.

“Cry it away, sweet boy. Cry all the nastiness away,” whispered the elder Holmes, in a familiar refrain. 

“Sorry, My, sorry, sorry…”

“I know, as am I,” said Mycroft, in a choked voice, feeling like a brute.

He brushed the damp curls from his brother’s face, and reached back to soothe his smarting backside. Sherlock hissed and reared up at the contact, but settled again and let himself be stroked and petted back down to earth.

Silence fell, broken only by sniffling and the odd hiccup.

“I’ve got some cold cream in the bathroom. I’ll get it,” said Mycroft, attempting to get off his creaking knees. Sherlock stopped him with a firm hand.

“N-no. Let me feel it. I earned it.”

“Later then, please.”

“Yes, all right. Later.”

Mycroft moved onto the sofa and pulled his loose-limbed, exhausted brother back over his lap, just letting him lie there and recover while he stroked his lower back in slow, comforting circles.

After a while, Sherlock’s baritone broke through the contented quiet.

“Why didn’t I know about this room?” he asked, suddenly, sounding puzzled and naive.

Mycroft huffed a small chuckle. “Because I chose not to let you.”

“Do you bring your private secretaries up here? All those nice Oxbridge boys with neat hair and PhDs?”

Mycroft frowned with weary tolerance and heartfelt dismay.

“Oh dear, are things that bad?” he asked, softly. “Of course I don’t bring private secretaries or nice boys up here, or anyone for that matter. Do you know why?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Tell me again,” he said, in a meek little voice.

“Because I gave myself once and once only,” said Mycroft, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Because nobody has ever touched me but you and nobody ever will. Only you, my Lock. Only.”

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock, serenely.

“ _Yes,_ ” said Mycroft, with emphasis that left no room for doubt.

The younger Holmes drew a shaky breath. “And… the same. For me. You. Only.”

Mycroft felt like he’d exhaled fully for the first time in hours. Relief filled his solar plexus and he felt light, airy, and absolved.

“I think… I think I needed to hear that. Thank you.”

Sherlock reached back and gripped the hand that was soothing him from behind.

“Make it better?” he asked, the inflection giving away his regressive insecurity.

“I shall. Always,” said Mycroft, confidently.

“ _Kiss_ it better…” said Sherlock, in a sly tone now. He turned round with a knowing smirk and a seductive look through his lowered lashes.

Mycroft’s heart jolted but his outward appearance remained cool and calm. He raised an arched brow.

“Ah, that’s what you’re after… Not too sore?”

Sherlock nodded dramatically. “Yes, very. But you know it…”

Mycroft snorted.

“It gets good round about now? Yes. I do know. Such a clever boy, translating all that horridness into something lovely. My clever, clever Sherlock.”

“Mycie, _please…,”_ wheedled Sherlock, kicking his legs to prompt him to move.

Mycroft stroked down his back and said in a mimicking tone, “Oh, yes, Mycie please. Mycie make it all better...”

Sherlock grinned and slid from his brother’s lap, to lie on his side on the floor, head propped up on his elbow. He winced a little as the side of his buttock made contact with the surface, but he continued to flirt with his eyes and his bitten lower lip. Mycroft tried to look stern, and failed. Rolling his eyes at the provocation, he stood and quickly fiddled with the sofa to pull it out to its bed form. Sherlock giggled as it transformed, noting there was a fitted sheet already in place.

“So well-prepared, Mycroft. Been planning on getting me up here?”

“I knew the moment would come, yes. You can’t go more than a few months without seriously misbehaving yourself,” rejoined Mycroft, smirking.

Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

“Lucky for you.”

“Well, possibly. I feel I should cast you out into the wilderness. This kind of pampering only serves to encourage you,” he joked. 

“No. This kind of thing only serves to make it right,” said Sherlock, sagely.

Mycroft chuckled as his brother’s sensible adult self was reasserted in the aftermath of his temporary regression state. He sat on the mattress and began stripping himself of his suit. Sherlock scrambled up, grimacing slightly, but urgently needing to be involved.

He knelt on the small mattress - only just big enough for two men well over six feet tall – and helped his brother divest himself of clothing. The waistcoat, the shirt, the tie, ended up in a pile on the floor. Mycroft went to object at this casual disregard for his wardrobe, but was prevented by Sherlock’s hand over his mouth. He nodded, taking the point. He lay back, and Sherlock carefully undid his belt, then his fly, and pulled his trousers and underwear down his legs in one smooth motion until he was as naked as his brother. He smiled almost shyly up at the dark-haired man, who ravished him with a look of absolute hunger.

Sherlock grinned delightedly, knowing exactly how he affected his elder brother and thanking every lucky star that he did. He leaned down for a kiss, and Mycroft’s arms came up around his neck until they were lost in each other. Sherlock writhed on top of his brother's bare body, their pricks rubbing and sparring deliciously. They moaned into each other’s mouths, and jerked their hips together - slowly at first, then frantically.

Sherlock pulled up onto all fours, panting and flushed. He was hard, aching with want. Wet. Only Mycroft made him do that.

Mycroft shuffled over and then suddenly pulled his brother down to lie on his front, while he moved to straddle him from behind.

Sherlock squeaked at being manhandled so firmly, humping the mattress in pleasure.

Mycroft smirked, and took a moment to assess the damage he had wrought on his brother’s sculptural  _derriere_.

“Hm. Looks sore,” he murmured, running a fingertip lightly across one horizontal welt.

Sherlock hissed and writhed some more, turning back to cast him a heated look.

“It is and it isn’t. Make it up to me, you brute,” he chuckled.

Mycroft smirked, and lowered himself to his brother’s wounded backside. He kissed lightly across each buttock, eliciting gasping sounds of pleasure-pain, which eventually turned the corner entirely into full-on pleasure.

Seeing his brother’s need ratchet higher, he nibbled and nipped at the soft flesh a little harder, then parted the sweet, pink cheeks to reveal the little twitching hole between.

He exhaled in satisfaction, and Sherlock whined in the back of this throat.

“Please… Please, My…,” he breathed.

Mycroft grinned and bent his head to his task, licking a warm, wet trail from the base of Sherlock’s sensitive perineum up to the tight opening, wiggling and probing with his tongue until his brother’s body made way for him. Sherlock moaned helplessly as he was kissed and loosened by Mycroft’s talented mouth, all hurts and recriminations forgotten now.

Mycroft groaned, and the reverberating baritone thrummed up through Sherlock’s quivering arse, and up his spine, stimulating him to unbearable hardness. Sherlock wailed and thrust harder. Mycroft held onto his hips for leverage as he plunged his face further into the tight, wet heat, gloriously surrounded by flesh and pheromones. He ate rapaciously, letting his lips and tongue bring Sherlock to near-insanity.

“Oh!” cried Sherlock, in a broken voice. “I’m going to…”

Mycroft stopped instantly, and Sherlock howled his displeasure.

“Don’t bloody stop! Please!” he begged, and Mycroft knew he had picked exactly the right moment to do so.

He said nothing, but pulled his brother up onto all fours and stood off the end of the bed, admiring the way Sherlock’s marked buttocks clenched and wobbled with tension.

He masturbated himself to full hardness, using his own precome to make his hand slide more easily over his thickly engorged head. 

Sherlock heard his uneven panting and looked round at his lover. Mycroft was flushed, sweating, his mouth still glistening with spit. Sherlock took himself in hand to massage his own long cock in sync with him.

“Don’t know…,” he panted, “if I’m up for…a full buggering…”

Mycroft laughed with his mouth agape, still tugging at himself.

“S’all right. Do you want anything…inside, or no?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just fingers…” begged Sherlock, between harsh bursts of breath.

“Mm,” grunted Mycroft, approvingly. He quickly rummaged in a drawer built into the side of the bed frame and came up with a pot of Vaseline.

Sherlock smirked at his always-prepared brother.

Mycroft chuckled back at him. “Secret offices should always be equipped with lubricant…”

He scooped some of the jelly-like substance onto two fingers and worked them into his prick. Then he dipped back in for more and anointed his other hand. He brought one slippery finger to his brother’s soft, lax entrance, and Sherlock keened as he was gently but firmly penetrated.

He bore down and canted his hips upwards to meet the intrusion, and leaned forward on his elbows, dropping his head and curving his back like a cat being stroked at the base of its tail.

Mycroft bit his lip at the tight clutch of his brother’s passage, and jerked his hand faster over his own dripping prick. Sherlock twisted slightly to watch his brother pleasuring himself - because of him. Because of them, and how it was between them.

He jerked his hips back to fuck himself on the questing finger, demanding more. Mycroft obliged, adding his middle finger to the first, scissoring them to further relax Sherlock’s internal muscles. He felt the give and both fingers slid further in. Sherlock was making a quiet little howling noise, continuous and in a higher register than his usual sex-roughened tone.

Mycroft grinned, feeling proud of his skill and deep knowledge of his brother’s body. He crooked his fingers up, just _there,_ at the perfect angle to press and tease the small bundle of nerves contained within the hidden gland that gave such unspeakable ecstasy.

Sherlock cried out frantically and jolted uncontrollably as sparks flew through his blood. His arsecheeks were sore and tingling, which only heightened the hot and fizzing sensation sizzling through his core, pushing his hard, swollen prick further towards climax. He felt his balls draw up, and moved his hand to grasp himself - but Mycroft got there first, ceasing his own masturbation to see to his brother’s release. With two fingers lodged deep inside his arse, and a slick palm working his smooth prick, Mycroft brought him to the edge of orgasm.

“My…Mycroft…” groaned Sherlock, pleading for it.

“Mm. Want to make you come, sweet boy,” crooned Mycroft. “Oh, come for me... Want to feel you all over my hand, want you clenching on my fingers, gorgeous, beautiful Lock…” His prick twitched at the words, not needing touch to be stimulated at the sheer sight of Sherlock, sweaty and striped and desperate to please.

His breath hitched and faltered, and then Sherlock was wailing, throwing his curly head up and back, mouth open as he shuddered, clenched, and spent.

Mycroft groaned at the hot wet sensation over his hand, and revelled in the intensity of his brother’s finish.

Sherlock grunted through the aftershocks, still clamping down spasmodically on Mycroft’s lubricated fingers. He giggled as it became a little absurd, and then hissed when it was slightly too much to bear. Mycroft smiled and gently extracted himself.

Sherlock sighed a huge sigh of repletion, but stayed on all fours, not prepared to collapse into bonelessness just yet.

“My, you…?” he asked, incoherently. “Want you… Between my legs, go on…” he urged, needing to feel the evidence of his brother’s arousal. Needing to complete the circuit of reciprocal pleasure.

“Do it!” he demanded, cheekily, closing his legs but pushing his arse further out towards a dazed Mycroft.

Mycroft grunted, and pushed his leaking prick between Sherlock’s dampened thighs, shoving and thrusting hard. He gripped his brother’s hips but avoided his sore bottom cheeks. He carefully pulled them apart to get a better obscene view of the slick, open hole, which inflamed his senses beyond bearing. He fucked himself between his brother’s thighs, and it was not long before his rhythm became more erratic, more needy.

“On my arse. Do it on my sore arse…,” begged Sherlock, clenching his thighs together to give him more friction.

And that finished Mycroft completely. He wailed as his orgasm overtook him, and only just had the forethought to pull back and grip himself as he came, pulsing streaks of hot spunk over the red-striped backside being so willingly presented to him.

Sherlock moaned with pleasure as he was covered in his brother’s fluid, and he relished the slight extra sting it caused.

Panting with exhaustion Mycroft slumped onto the mattress next to his brother, face down, chuckling inanely. Sherlock joined him, staying on his front. He wiggled until they lay side-by-side clutching each other’s hands, their heads turned towards each other, eyes alight in mutual merriment.

“Phew,” said Sherlock, his voice slightly muffled by the bed. “That was a whopper. Excellent service in these taxpayer-funded offices.”

Mycroft chuckled, his head light with silliness after such an intense orgasm. “Doesn’t that hurt more?” he asked, flicking his head back to indicate the mess he’d made.

Sherlock snorted a laugh. “Yep.”

Mycroft turned over onto his back with a deep groan, and Sherlock draped himself over his brother’s body. He cuddled up to his chest, resting his head below his chin. They half-dozed for a while, soaking up the mutual afterglow. Sherlock brought himself round to full consciousness first.

“Tired,” he mumbled.

“You should be. Worn me out too.” Mycroft yawned suddenly, as if to make his point.

“Can we sleep here?”

“Hmm. Nap only. Might be awkward to sneak you out in the morning.”

Sherlock snorted contemptuously.

“Not for you. Just say we were talking about a case. No-one thinks twice. We’re weirdos, Mycroft, people make exceptions for weirdos.”

Mycroft found he had no resistance to this kind of logic.

“All right. But you get up when I get up. I’m not leaving you in here to snoop through all my paperwork.”

Sherlock tutted. “As if I would. Yawnsville.”

“Stay with me this week, hm? At the flat. I’ll fuck you on the balcony like you always nag me to,” Mycroft said, magnanimously.

“‘Kay. I’ll tell John you’re having a midlife crisis and you need my assistance.”

“That is not untrue, sadly.”

Sherlock looked up as he realised he’d been sneakily insulted. “I don’t nag!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, you do. But luckily I am in the mood to indulge you.”

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Bloody cheek.”

“How long have we been here?” asked Sherlock, after a pause.

Mycroft checked his watch.

“One hour, and twenty eight minutes.”

“So…the door will be open by now? The Time Lock thing.” He looked up at his brother in earnestness.

Mycroft gazed down at him with exasperated affection and brotherly mockery.

“Oh, Sherlock, really!”

“What?” said Sherlock, blinking innocently.

“I forgot how sex addles your wits…Lucky you only do it with me, so I can correct these silly notions of yours.”

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft sighed happily.

“I hate to break it to you, but there’s no such thing as a Time Lock. You could have walked out of here nearly two hours ago and I couldn’t have stopped you.”

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a second, before breaking out into his characteristic manipulative grin.

Mycroft frowned, then realised he been played for a fool. Again.

Sherlock laughed, a rich redolent sound resounding from this chest.

“Well, obviously, brother! Who ever heard of such a stupid thing?! You’re _so_ not the smart one. Time Lock indeed. Of course I could have left. But when have I ever walked out on you?”


	3. Balcony: an epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A balcony scene follow-up, a gift to LadyGlinda and queenellis, who asked for it!

"What took you so bloody long?!" came the angry demand, the second Mycroft Holmes walked through the door to the flat at St. James’s. 

He took it in his stride and calmly hung up his coat. There was no other available strategy.

"Work, what do you think?" he said, calmly.

"Ugh."

"Don't huff at me, please."

"I'll huff all I like!” exclaimed Sherlock, irritably. “You invited me to stay, you're supposed to be a gracious host."

He was heartily sick of being left on his own all day.

"I am exceedingly gracious, considering I have to deal with the world's most aggravating guest," said Mycroft, placidly.

"I'll go back to Baker Street if you're not going to make the effort! At least John’s there most of the time,” griped Sherlock.

Mycroft frowned at this threat, empty though he knew it to be.

“Presumably there are additional incentives to waiting for me? Unless there’s something you’re not telling me about the good Doctor? Do I have to have him removed?”

“Don’t be absurd, Mycroft. And don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Only yesterday his brother had been begging to be reassured about his own fidelity - as if it were ever necessary to do so. 

"I am making the effort, Sherlock. I am home now. We both have to work. At least you can work from here. I, sadly, have to sit in meetings with idiots all day. I suffer far more than you."

"Good. You deserve to," grunted Sherlock, scowling deeply.

"Thank you, dear."

Mycroft sighed and prepared for a trying evening.

Last night they had lain together in harmony, cuddling up to each other, restoring closeness and mutual care. Today, however, would be different. Sherlock was always tetchy and brittle the day after a disciplinary session, regardless of whether he had company or not. He felt the need to reassert his manhood after such a display of vulnerability, to offset the uncomfortable admission of fault.

Mycroft quite understood it, and had perfected various strategies to deal with it in his own devious way. He knew better than to take too seriously his brother's posturing, but allowed him space to do a bit of ego-boosting. A Sherlock after he had been condignly punished was volatile, and required careful handling. Fortunately, Mycroft was a careful handler, though he too loved to skate on thin ice, and would test Sherlock's patience a little for his own amusement. It was an elder brother's prerogative.

Though Mycroft often dreaded stepping on a Sherlockian landmine, he feared boring him more, and went out of his way not to do so. The boy required constant stimulation, and Mycroft gave it to him willingly. 

However, there was a fine line between toleration and overindulgence, and between flirtatious provocation and genuine offensiveness. Either strategy could backfire. Sherlock had been known to get up and leave in the middle of actual sex just because he'd thought of something that had offended him during the day - some throwaway comment or a look taken amiss.

But it never signified much. The Holmes brothers were addicted to their little game of cat and mouse, each knowing there was no better player than the other.

"You know, you might at least seem mildly pleased to have me home, for all your protestations. You could have met me at the door with a drink and my slippers, like a good little house pet."

"Right, that's it. I'm leaving," said Sherlock in disgust.

Mycroft shrugged.

"If you must. I think that would be rather a shame, myself, but I don't wish to stand in the way of a dramatic exit, if it's what you truly desire. I'm sure if you stayed we could have a very convivial evening."

Sherlock stopped at the door and turned back with his hands on his slim hips. "You think so, do you?"

"Mm. I do. But if you must flounce, far be it from me to stop you."

Mycroft turned away, smiling to himself.

"No, no,” sighed Sherlock, oozing mature tolerance. “If I leave you'll only spend the night sobbing into your pillow like a spurned teenager. I have no wish to reduce you to such a pitiful state. Again.”

He slinked back into the room.

"So kind."

"What about my balcony fuck? You promised!"

Mycroft sighed in revulsion at the language and the whining.

"You're not going the right way about putting me in the mood."

"I don't care about your mood. I want my balcony fuck!" demanded Sherlock.

"So I gather. I regret promising it. You caught me at a weak moment," said Mycroft, sighing at his own susceptibility.

"All your moments are weak moments when it comes to me."

Wasn’t that the truth, thought Mycroft, with self-knowing despair.

"No comment. I do hate to disappoint you..."

"I hate you to disappoint me! So don't."

Mycroft came to stand in front of the antsy detective.

"Darling, I'm not sure it's entirely secure," he said, as gently as possible.  

Sherlock scoffed.

"You can make everything secure if you want to. You're just determined to spoil my fun. I've already done a recce of the park and the surrounding buildings."

Mycroft expected as much and made a calculated decision.

"Well, as it happens... I called in a quarter of an hour ago for the sweep. We're clear on that front. Building cameras disabled too, and CCTV within a five miles radius. Criminals intent on evildoing would be wise to do their evil in St James's tonight."

"OK. So...?"  A look of excited expectation flashed across the detective’s imperious face.

"I suppose we may safely be un-looked upon,” confessed Mycroft, unwilling and unable to put him off.

“Nothing is ever perfect of course, but... With the reach of the signal jammers and electrical scramblers, even drones would be hard pressed to operate anywhere near enough to get an eyeful. I don't suppose anyone could get close enough for a decent picture, even on a telephoto lens, assuming someone were staking out my balcony for reasons known only to themselves."

The younger Holmes grinned with joy and almost clapped his hands.

"Right! What are you waiting for, then?"

Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt with an overt eagerness that it pleased his brother to see. Still, Mycroft felt the need to play just a little hard to get. Let the anticipation build.

"A little decorum, perhaps? A drink, a conversation? Some mildly seductive prelude? Dare I suggest, foreplay?"

Mycroft leaned in to peck his brother’s cheek, and Sherlock returned the gesture, prepared to offer affection now it seemed he was going to get his own way after all.

"Mycroft, there's no need to be old-fashioned," he drawled, ironically. He flopped onto the couch now he could relax, safe in the knowledge he would not be neglected.

"There is always a need to be old-fashioned. Contemporary sexual mores are simply ghastly."

"What would you know of contemporary sexual mores? You're only fucking me. Or you'd better be, because if I ever hear otherwise I will eviscerate them and..."

"Make my life a living hell, yes, so you've said.  I won't dignify that with an answer, seeing as jealousy is _such_ an unattractive quality... I am at least partially aware of the prevailing culture, I'll have you know. I don't live in a cave, unlike half the population, apparently. These knuckle-dragging men nowadays. All haste and no finesse. No style at all."

Sherlock snorted with insolent scepticism.

"And you're so stylish, are you? I seem to recall you being rather hasty when you gave me that dressing down in your secret office."

"I seem to recall you begging for it. But then, you always do, don't you?"

"Pfft. I don't beg. I urgently request. Either way, it didn't last long, did it?"

"I beg your pardon, but your sore backside made haste rather a necessity. I don't like to cause undue distress when you're already being such a crybaby..."

"I am not a crybaby!” exclaimed Sherlock, sitting up indignantly. “And you caused my sore backside!"

"I'm sorry, _who_ caused your sore backside?" said Mycroft, fixing his brother with a meaningful glare.

Sherlock knew better than to argue with that one.

"Erm... Well, me. Still, you're a monster and a brute, and I loathe you."

His eyes twinkled at his brother even though his mouth turned down in a convincing sulk.

Mycroft smiled pleasantly in return. "Yes, dear, I know. How is that poor punished bottom of yours today?"

Sherlock reddened to hear it so described.

“It’s fine, thank you. Well, it’s striped and a bit purple round the edges. Sitting’s a bugger, but it’s nothing I haven’t endured before.”

“Quite.”

Mycroft adored how resilient his little brother was; how he never really dwelled upon discomfort, though he was capable of playacting it. He bounced back so quickly from distress, and from punishment, even though it did funny things to his emotions; never resented Mycroft for his role and never truly held it against him, despite any fuss he might make about it. He was simply incorrigible, which was both positive and negative. But as long as his elder brother was there to supply the salutary lessons, he could run freely, knowing the price would be extracted from him if he went too far. Because that's simply how it worked between them.

"So what about this foreplay, then?" sighed Sherlock, sounding very put-upon.

Mycroft moved to the kitchen and pulled out two glass tumblers.

"How about a drink to start with, or is that too civilised for you, you little barbarian? I'll mix you something."

"Whatever. I don't need booze to get me going," said Sherlock derisively. 

"You don't need to be conscious to get going. No matter how many times we do the deed, I always wake up with you humping my leg. I don't know where you find the energy," he said absently, as he poured whiskey into the glasses.

Sherlock made an obnoxious noise with his tongue.

"'Do the deed'. It's unbelievable how stuffy you are when you’re not in a passion. So bourgeois."

Mycroft shook his head and tutted theatrically. "Sherlock Holmes, your manners are atrocious, I don't know where we went wrong with you."

"Rotten discipline. Your own fault."

"Mm, but I'm making up for it in later life, aren't I?"

It was, after all, only the truth. Sherlock thought it wiser not to respond.

"First things first,” said Mycroft, sliding a glass of amber liquid across to his brother’s waiting hand. “There you are. An Old Fashioned."

Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself.

"Poser."

"Ingrate.”

The brothers toasted each other amiably, and drank, letting the fiery liquid warm their blood and settle any residual tension.

Sherlock necked his drink, trying to compel Mycroft to action.

“Right, finished. Fuck me,” he demanded.

Mycroft glared disapprovingly. "Always want it on your own terms, don't you?"

"Because I'm a high-functioning sociopath,"  retorted Sherlock with considerable pride.

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. "So you like to tell people. Very convenient for you, pretending that you don't know when your behaviour is wrong. But it doesn't wash with me, baby brother."

Sherlock was highly displeased. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that, fortunately, you do have a conscience. You just wish you didn't. Much more glamourous for you that way, isn't it?"

"I'm sociopathic - a danger to society!" insisted the detective, appalled at being so contradicted on the matter.

"You're a danger to yourself, and me, frankly,” said Mycroft, levelly. “But otherwise, you're simply an asocial genius with a danger complex and a borderline narcissistic view of the world."

"Don't be horrid!" Sherlock exclaimed, unable to believe what he was hearing, especially because he knew it was all true. Bloody Mycroft, stating these things out loud just to annoy him.

"Anyway, there's nothing wrong with you that a smacked bottom can't sort out," said the elder Holmes pleasantly, as he finished his cocktail.

Sherlock was horrified. "Mycroft!"

"I speak only the truth."

"What are you, then?"

"Officially Remarkable, as you well know, brother mine," he stated, with intolerable superiority.

"Megalomaniac with an ego the size of continental Europe!"

"Justified."

"More arrogant than the entire Houses of Parliament put together."

"Almost a compliment."

"A... A..."

Sherlock faltered at his brother’s hot glare. The atmosphere in the room thickened. Mycroft’s eyes were dilated, his grey irises crowded out by black pupils. Sherlock recognised the look all too well, and swallowed drily. Mycie was finally ready to get serious.

"Come here," he ordered, quietly.

Sherlock eyed his brother with suspicion.

"Why, what are you going to do?"

"Don't be silly, come here to me," he repeated, with superb calm.

"No." Sherlock tossed his head and folded his arms resolutely.

"Lock, are you being difficult...?" asked Mycroft, smirking and prowling up to his recalcitrant brother.

Sherlock chuckled and fidgeted, feeling deliciously like prey. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Oh, good." Mycroft grinned evilly, and caught his brother in an embrace. He kissed him properly on the mouth in belated greeting.

Sherlock put up a rudimentary struggle and then relented, going limp and pliant in his arms.

Their tongues met and intertwined, licking round each other’s open mouths, renewing their intimacy now they’d provoked each other enough to save face and satisfy their need for linguistic foreplay.

They tasted strong alcohol, but underneath that, each man revelled in the unique, familiar flavour of his most beloved brother.

"Hello, Lock, how are you?" said Mycroft, suavely, as though he’d only just entered the room.

Sherlock's long nose wrinkled in befuddlement, his brow creased as he tried to give an honest answer to the question.

"All..."

"I know, darling. All edgy and prickly, and in need of a Good. Hard. Balcony. Fuck. Hm?" said Mycroft, between seductive kisses to the shell of Sherlock's ear, his neck, and his jaw.

Sherlock quivered a little under the assault. "Oooh... Yep. Yesss…"

"Oh, brother mine, how I've missed you today...," whispered Mycroft, grinning in self-satisfaction at how easily victory was won. "The thoughts in my head through all those awful meetings. So obscene, so completely depraved..."

"Tell me," panted Sherlock, unable to help himself reacting to that particular tone of voice his brother used as it reverberated low and soft in his ear.

"Kept seeing you in my mind's eye, naked and wanting. Tied to my balcony, helpless. Desperate for me to come home and touch you. So in need of my prick to undo you completely..."

They were both hard now, straining in their underwear. They moved to press their groins together, and rubbed against each other, stimulating their cocks through their clothes.

"Mycrooooft...,” moaned Sherlock, going a bit weak at the knees at the sound, and smell, and feel of his lover.

"Bent over for me, just as you were the other day, spreading your legs wide and letting me see your pretty hole. God, it is _so_ precious..."

Sherlock was beyond words now, and simply moaned, going dizzy with the proximity of Mycroft and his wicked, taunting tongue.

"Tight and edible, and so very, very fuckable. You know I love making it wet, making it open for me. Love tickling it with my tongue, and licking it loose... Pulling it apart with my thumbs, forcing it wider to take me. Such a perfect fit, my darling. Engineered just for your big brother, weren't you? Hm? Fashioned to please me. And I to satisfy you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, yesss... Fuck!"

"Out onto the balcony with you, you horrid little monster," husked Mycroft, with an alluring smile. He turned his brother away and smacked his backside, eliciting a yelp and an indignant, heated glare from over his shoulder.

Mycroft maintained intense eye contact, wiped whiskey and spit from his mouth, then whipped off his suit jacket and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Sherlock whimpered and dashed for the double doors which led to the balcony.

Outside was an unseasonably warm autumn evening; twinkling lights around St. James’s Park, and a view of the Palace illuminated against the dark sky.

Mycroft’s grace-and-favour penthouse, which took up the entire top floor of the large, exclusive 1920s mansion block, was the only flat to have a balcony. It offered a stunning prospect of Westminster. The building was virtually unoccupied, except for a few rather senile and mercifully deaf Lords on the lower floors. Mycroft had ensured the dwellings immediately below were left empty for additional privacy, though they were monitored constantly in case of untoward activity.

Mycroft followed his brother outside, shirt and trousers already undone. Sherlock was in the same state, both men understanding that to be fully naked out here was probably inadvisable, even with all their precautions.

Sherlock leaned over the wrought iron balcony rail, and looked out over London – their beautiful, historic, mad and maddening city. He sighed, almost as in love with it as he was with Mycroft. He turned at his brother’s approach and bestowed a winsome grin.

Mycroft’s pale eyes twinkled as he beheld his Lock under a moonlit sky, set against a picture-perfect backdrop of the capital city of his home nation. He had pledged himself to both of them decades ago, and he would keep both safe for as long as he lived.

Mycroft came up behind his brother, leaning against him and sighing with contentment in the mild night air. He kissed his neck, pulling the shirt collar away with one hand, and running the other underneath to caress the smooth skin of his back.

Sherlock hummed in pleasure as his brother’s cool hand snaked round his waist and slipped into his underwear. He gasped as finally, finally, his heavy cock was handled and massaged to full erection. He suppressed the very loud moan he would ordinarily have let out, and tipped his head back to nuzzle into his brother’s jawline.

“I think I’ll fuck you looking out over London, hm? Grip the rail with both hands for me,” commanded Mycroft, softly, and rather smugly.

The elder Holmes leaned his head round to press their lips together once more, as he pushed his hardness up against his brother’s firm backside, so recently marred by his disciplinary attentions. He pulled his own trousers and pants down to unleash himself, and his prick bobbed up. He rubbed it up and down Sherlock’s cleft, and exhaled shakily at the pleasure of it.

Sherlock groaned and pushed his own clothing down, revealing his smooth bottom cheeks and the fast-fading welts, so lovingly delivered, which still decorated his creamy flesh.

“Brother mine…,” groaned Mycroft, directly into the shell of Sherlock’s ear. His voice was thick with desire, and Sherlock knew this was the point at which his brother let his guard down. This, therefore, was also the point at which to act.

Quick as a flash he slipped away, removed something from his trouser pocket, and secured his brother's arm in an iron grip. Mycroft’s eyes flew wide open at the unexpected move, but it was too late to stop it. A metallic clink and a wicked little chuckle secured his fate – and his wrist – to the balcony rail.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock!” he complained, not bothering to struggle, because he was an intelligent man and knew it was futile. “Handcuffs? Really?”

Sherlock stood back and enjoyed his moment. A very dishevelled and randy Mycroft, attached by one wrist to his own balcony, and manfully attempting not to seem furious.

“Handcuffs,” he confirmed. “Really. You must pay for your dreadful neglect of me today. And possibly for abusing my bum so appallingly yesterday. So we are going to have a balcony fuck. But my way.”

Mycroft frowned deeply and grunted at being overthrown.

“Oh, don’t worry, brother, dear," said Sherlock, soothingly. "I don’t mean I want your arse. Not tonight. Though later, if you don’t mind?”

“I never mind, dear boy, I just have no desire to be restrained out here. Especially not by you! You're not to be trusted with handcuffs!”

“Tut tut, don’t be rude. I can still swallow the key, and then what will you tell your hired goons when they come bursting in here looking for you tomorrow?”

“Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes! Yesterday will seem like a bloody picnic compared to what I’ll do to you if you keep me out here! I shall flog that little arse of yours until you have double vision!”

“Yes, yes. I’m terrified and you’re very impressive, etc. Listen, you ridiculous Mycroft. I will only abandon you if you behave badly. All I require is cooperation. Just as you’re always preaching to me.”

“Oh, God…,” groaned Mycroft, appalled at having to listen to this self-aggrandising monologue. “Fine. Have your fun. I only hope it will be my fun too?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So selfishly concerned with your own orgasm. Not very gallant or old fashioned of you. Listen to your little brother for a change, hm? Here’s the deal. You’re going to face in towards the flat, bare arse towards the Palace, mooning the Queen. Give the old girl a thrill, eh?”

“You impudent scamp!”

Sherlock chuckled delightedly. “Think of it as a precaution, just in case anyone is watching after all. You hold the rail with your other hand, but it’s free to pet me and make me feel good. I will require that. And I will take what I want from you. I’m only sorry I couldn’t nick two sets of cuffs from the Yard, but Lestrade nearly caught me red-handed.”

“When I am released from this vile bondage, I shall catch you red-handed, you egregious boy…”

“Yes, yes. Shut up and enjoy yourself, My.”

“Fine. So stop talking and give me something to enjoy!”

Sherlock grinned broadly and stripped off his remaining clothes. He never could stay clothed, that boy, mused Mycroft idly. Then the breath caught in his chest at the sight of his brother’s lissom, lean body - all sharp edges, naked in moonlight. His long cock stood against his lower abdomen, thrusting up from a neat, dark patch of hair at his groin; his tight, velvety sack drawn up below. Mycroft’s mouth watered for him.

Sherlock approached, staring with equally ravenous hunger at his brother – rumpled and restricted by handcuffs; disconcerted but turned on beyond reason. His pale chest peeked out from beneath his crisp, open shirt. His trousers were down at mid-thigh, and his substantial cock - thick, ruddy and glinting with wetness - bobbed in the air, curving upwards very slightly, as it naturally did. That curvature created wonders inside his body, and Sherlock ached for its magic.

He dropped to his knees in front of it, like a suppliant at worship, and Mycroft’s brow crumpled with desperation.

“Oh, yes…,” he whispered, running his uncuffed hand through his brother’s sweet curls, stroking his eartips. “Oh, please do…”

Sherlock smirked and inhaled his brother’s scent, the tip of his nose a mere fraction away from the tip of Mycroft's straining prick.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure, then cast a saucy look upwards and winked. Mycroft almost wailed as his brother opened his mouth, and took him inside. His knees nearly gave way at the hot, wet sensation of Sherlock’s nimble tongue as it explored his glans and the sensitive pinpoint of his weeping slit.

Nonsensical curses and obscenities fell from his lips as he was licked and swallowed. Sherlock hummed low in his chest, sending a reverberation through his penis that seemed to travel somewhere deeper into this arse.

Sherlock sucked and laved, tasting his brother's rich precome on his tongue and savouring its unique flavour. It sent him skyrocketing into sensory pleasure. His mouth and nose and brain were enraptured by the tastes and smells of his nearest genetic counterpart, and his most cherished partner in life.

He brought a hand up between Mycroft’s thighs and played with his heavy balls, which filled his palm so beautifully. He loved the fullness of them, loved knowing he was building up a flood of semen to be released into his own body.

Mycroft was grunting haphazardly now, and Sherlock seized the opportunity to push him closer to his limit. He ran his forefinger underneath his brother's taut balls, pressing at the sensitive ridge behind them, massaging it steadily until he felt Mycroft's breathing shift to a faster, panting rhythm. Then he removed his finger and brought it to his mouth. He tasted the delicious muskiness of his brother's body, and slid his wet fingertip back under and up to Mycroft's tightly puckered hole.

Mycroft exclaimed into the night, trying desperately to keep the noise down, when all he wanted to do was shout encouragement and praise. His brother’s slim, wet fingertip persisted at his entrance, and lodged inside a few inches. Just enough to cause an illicit, naughty little feeling in his stomach to deepen his lust. Sherlock wiggled his finger tantalisingly, and probed just a bit further, not fully inserted, but far enough in to make Mycroft feel penetrated.

Giving My a blowjob on the balcony, with a finger up his bum. Such stuff as dreams were made on. He giggled with his mouth full at the thought, and Mycroft made a helpless whine of pure need.

“Lock…prob’ly should stop, if you want…,” he panted.

Sherlock frowned as though he was going to have his favourite toy taken away, and sucked harder, pushing forwards and opening his throat to take his brother deeper. He pressed his finger harder too, stroking him firmly from the inside.

“Seriously…!” urged Mycroft, frantically tapping his brother’s shoulder with his free hand.

Sherlock smiled wickedly around the cock in his mouth, then swallowed again, squeezing his throat against the plump head.

“Fuck!” hissed Mycroft. His legs shook with the strain and he felt the first shudders of release building in his thighs and lower back.

“I’m going to – “

And then Sherlock pulled away entirely and extracted his finger.

Mycroft jolted and his eyes sprang open at the sudden lack of contact. Sherlock gazed up at his desperate lover, sucked his finger off, then wiped his mouth on his hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

Mycroft’s unsatisfied cock jerked needily in the air. It was infuriating, and all the more erotic for being so.

“You tormenting little _bastard!”_ he ground out, meaning every word.

Sherlock shrugged with admirable nonchalance.

“You told me to stop, silly. If I didn’t know the precise length of your refractory period – getting longer with age, sadly – I’d have forced it out of you and we could go again in an instant. But if I have to wait for you to be ready again, we might freeze to death out here.”

Mycroft seemed incredulous and slightly offended.

“We’re don’t all have a Peter Pan complex! You may be able to spend yourself like a hormonal teenager - I am but frail flesh and blood. And my refractory period is utterly normal, thank you!” he said, keeping his voice hushed.

Sherlock relented, feeling soft and fuzzy, and entirely warm towards his extraordinary brother, who really could get it up for him whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to make him genuinely insecure about his prowess, which he had never found lacking.

He stood and leaned in to offer a soothing kiss, which Mycroft accepted with good grace.

“I’m only teasing, My. I don’t want you down my throat right now. Not when you could be up my arse. Hold onto the rail.”

Mycroft relented, deciding now was not the time to get defensive and bristly. Not with Sherlock bending over before his very eyes, legs straddled wide, leaning on his hands in an obscene and rather gymnastic pose.

Sherlock peeked round at him from upside down, face flushing, hair flopping all over his face.

His tongue poked out in concentration as he walked himself back on his hands, positioning himself in front of Mycroft. He had to push up a little to get the correct angle, until his spread arse was at the correct height to meet his brother’s erection.

Mycroft gawped at the sight of Sherlock’s hole – obviously pre-prepared - stretched and slick with lube. It winked and twitched in front of him, in literal open invitation. So this was what the little sod had in mind. He wanted to control the pace and angle, and put on a bit of a performance. He wanted to fuck back on him, and all but use his cock as an inanimate toy. Mycroft discovered he was absolutely fine with the idea of being his brother’s fucking-post.

Sherlock moved back until his faintly striped backside pressed up against his brother’s groin, and he felt the tickle of hair against him. He chuckled at himself and bent his knees a little, wiggling his arse and teasing his brother between his buttocks. Mycroft shifted his hips and tried to line up the large crown of his cock with that sweet opening, but the mechanics were off.

“I’ll have to cheat, dear,” he chuckled, softly, and used his untied hand to guide himself to Sherlock’s gaping entrance. He slid in easily and with minimal resistance. The wide-spread position of his brother’s legs parted his buttocks naturally, which made for easier access, and his prick, dripping and ready, pushed home completely with beautifully soft friction. It made his head spin, to be so engulfed.

“You’ve had something up here,” gasped Mycroft, delighted at the notion, and at the feeling of being able to just slide in. Or rather, have his brother slide back onto him.

“Yeah,” panted Sherlock, happily. “Played with that thing you keep secret in the box under your bed, you dirty sod.”

“S’not a secret from you, is it? Did you like it?”

“Not as much as I like this. It’s not wide enough for me, and it doesn't _curve_ like you,” giggled Sherlock, overflowing with compliments now he was filled and on the way to being satisfied.

“Good. Fuck back on me, you shameless slut,” demanded Mycroft, in a deep, husky tone of command.

Sherlock shuddered deliciously at the language Mycroft only unleashed during extreme fits of passion. He did not have it in him to reclaim the upper hand under the circumstances, and did as he was told.

He thrust his hips back, taking the strain through his strong thighs. His arms shook with the effort of bracing, but it was worth it for the thrumming pleasure coursing through his arse, deeper than he’d had for a while. As he suspected, this position made for a mind-blowing fuck.

They moaned together, each feeling the other so intimately. So turned on by the rather unusual scenario. Each man adored the depth of connection with the other, physical and emotional.            

Mycroft huffed as he balanced himself, re-gripped the rail so both his hands were spread out either side of him. He lowered himself just a fraction, and canted his hips upwards – and then it was perfect. It was spot-on. Sherlock let out a wail to wake the neighbourhood. Mycroft thanked the gods of property investment that barely anyone lived in the surrounding area at all, and that none of the Russian oligarchs who owned most of St. James’s these days were in residence.

Sherlock threw his weight onto his hands, muscles burning with lactic acid now, as he let Mycroft fuck him at the preferred angle, hitting his prostate with every stroke. He cursed himself for shackling his brother. Ordinarily, he'd revel in the fierce grip of his brother's hands on his hips. But Mycroft worked with diligence and gusto to fuck him insensible nonetheless.

Sherlock shook from stem to stern as his brother’s cock pounded relentlessly up inside him, and suddenly his finish was upon him.

“Oh, My, oh, you...make me…so… Coming, I'm  _coming_!”

He jerked like a fish out of water, his balls tightened and throbbed with the need to release, and sparks flew from his arse to his melting tip. He came untouched, splattering onto the tiled balcony floor, moaning in one long stream of animal noise. His arms and legs shook with the strain of it, and his stomach contracted through every pulse of his spending cock.

Mycroft grunted unevenly as his own cock was clamped, and his eyes rolled back in his head. The wet, burning channel surrounding him fluttered as his brother came, and then he followed, gasping with his head thrown back, pulling against the metal handcuff on one wrist. The pain of it was lost amid a haze of hormones. Blood rushed in his head, and through his engorged prick as he flooded Lock's quivering body with semen. He moaned his brother's name to the sky as he completed.

Sherlock groaned with exhaustion as he pulled away and fell to his hands and knees. He felt an instant gush spill from his arse. Mycroft watched, fascinated and dazed, as his ejaculate rolled thickly down his brother’s inner thighs.

“Beautiful sight. Oh, Lock, so used, you are. God, it’s just… Open. Sticky with me,” he murmured in filthy wonderment.

Sherlock giggled uncontrollably and rolled into a ball on the ground, recovering his breath. Mycroft snorted at the sight, and leant on his knee with one hand, rueing the handcuff which prevented him from fully relaxing and enjoying the afterglow. Most of all, he regretted not being able to gather his brother to him and share the moment equally.

“Lock, please… The cuff? You’ve made your point. Let me hold you. I…”

Sherlock looked up, confused.

“Oh, shit. Yes. I sort of forgot you were my prisoner!”

He ran into the flat, and for a brief moment Mycroft really feared he might be left here. That this was all part of some cruel practical joke. That his brother would ride off on a wave of mischief and decide to have a little humiliating fun with him. It had been known. But less so these days, he reminded himself.

Sherlock returned with the key, still naked, sweaty and sticky. He walked a little awkwardly. His legs were rather wobbly from holding the stress position, and his arse was still a bit tender from being so vigorously rogered.

Mycroft smiled broadly as his brother unlocked him, and rubbed at his wrist to soothe the hurt.

He gathered his amazing boy to him, and they sagged against each other in sheer relief and mutual repletion.

“Was that worth waiting for, my dear?” asked Mycroft, playfully, nuzzling at a high cheekbone.

Sherlock snorted and nodded his curly head definitely.

"Honour restored?" he teased again, just to check.

"Hmph. Yes. That'll do it,” said Sherlock, looking up with mock-seriousness and true adoration in his eyes. “Though somehow all our encounters end in ruination for my rear end.” He pouted for effect.

Mycroft smirked, and kissed him fondly.

“No," he corrected, "they always end up with me soothing your rear end with various creams, unguents, and cooling gels. As I shall now do.”

And with that, he scooped his far-too-tall-for-this-sort-of-thing brother up into his arms, and carried him, protesting insincerely, back into the flat.

Another few days of sentiment, and all would be completely well. And then they would start round on driving each other up the wall, and arguing, and testing each other's talents - until it was time to make up, and come back to this again.  

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Do leave me some K if so - always grand to hear from lovely mucky readers. xx


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